


checking and saving

by youcouldmakealife



Series: it's a setup [23]
Category: Original Work
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-27
Updated: 2020-09-27
Packaged: 2021-03-08 04:47:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,294
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26679949
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/youcouldmakealife/pseuds/youcouldmakealife
Summary: “You think — you think we call you Money because your last name’s Munroe?” Willy asks.“Yeah?” Joey says.“Money,” Willy says. “You complete and utter moron.”
Relationships: OMC/OMC
Series: it's a setup [23]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1669567
Comments: 46
Kudos: 359





	checking and saving

They get a nice rest before the second round, one that means Joey’s bruises are half faded and his body is almost not sore when they get matched up against San Jose.

Joey’s honestly amazed the Sharks made it out of the first round, and it wasn’t easy for them — that was a seven-gamer with a lot of really scrambly shit happening and a number of injuries piling up — but that doesn’t mean he’s going to take them lightly. Playoffs are unpredictable, and it’s stupid to take any team lightly.

“We’re not taking them lightly!” Willy barks before Game 1. “I see anyone on their heels because they’re underestimating San Jose I will rip your pathetic, useless, uncommitted heart out with my teeth! Want to add anything, Coach?”

“Honestly, you keep going Tate,” Coach says. “You’re doing great.”

“Thanks Coach,” Willy says brightly, then, back to murderous, “Do you motherfuckers hear me right now? With my goddamn teeth, I swear I’ll do it, look me in the eyes, you know I’ll do it. I will do it, and I will _smile_ after with your blood _on my teeth_.”

“He’s getting worse,” Dumbo says quietly from the stall beside Joey’s. Poor soul. He wasn’t on the roster last year, he doesn’t know what awaits him.

“Just wait — if we make it to Finals again?” Joey says. “Finals Willy is batshit.”

“This isn’t batshit?” Dumbo mumbles.

“Not yet,” Joey says. “You’ll know it when you see it.”

Dumbo makes a vaguely frightened noise, and Joey pats him comfortingly on the shoulder.

San Jose comes out like a team with a chip on their shoulder and a lot to prove. It doesn’t help that Morozov is playing hot, practically dragged the Sharks to Kansas City by himself, and they can’t make a dent in him, leave for the rooms after the first down 1-0. 

“With my teeth,” Willy says, said teeth gritted, and he’s fucking flying in the second, Playoff Willy in full effect, scores the tying goal and tips in the go ahead, and Dumbo nets them a third, because fear is a powerful motivator. That’s the score going into the third, and that’s the score when it’s five minutes to go, every single shift a battle, the Sharks pushing hard even before they pull Morozov with three left, Coach tapping Joey on the shoulder. Joey plays that shift hard, takes one gasping break on the bench before he goes right back out. 

The Sharks won’t give up the fucking puck, like dogs with a goddamn bone, and Limbo’s getting swarmed. Something’s going to break, D tied up, Limbo out of the blue and helpless against the rebound and Joey sprawls to try to get it out, ends up with it under him.

When the horn goes Joey’s prone on his belly, desperately trying to stay on the puck despite many sticks doing their best to get him off said puck, praying that a whistle won’t go first and that he isn’t about to take a skate blade to the face. It doesn’t and he doesn’t, thank fuck, and Joey gets up slowly, with a couple pissed off cross-checks to his back impeding his efforts before the ref steps in and before he’s nearly knocked right back down by Willy jumping on his back.

“Fucking Money in the bank, baby!” Willy yells right into his ear. “You beautiful bastard!”

“Ow but thank you!” Joey says, and shakes Willy off so Willy can yell in Limbo’s face instead, Joey waiting for him to finish before he gives Limbo a helmet tap.

“You’re a warrior, man,” Limbo says. “Saved my ass at the end, Money.”

Joey beams. There is no greater compliment than one from your goalie.

Willy’s the first star of the night, no surprise, but it’s Joey getting the sparkly MVP top hat, since Willy had it last and there’s a no repeat rule.

“And to our Money in the bank,” Willy says graciously, handing it over to hoots, and Joey dons the very smelly hat of the MVP. Feels so good. Smells so bad. 

He has to take it off pretty much immediately to go do a postgame interview, which is not exactly a shame, because it is an honor and also a curse, catalogs the damage from that final minute during a quick shower — surprisingly not bad, he’s got a couple bruises coming in, but they barely even hurt — still on an endorphin high when he’s getting changed into street clothes. Willy appears to be too, coming over and sticking Joey in a very happy headlock.

“Money,” he says. “My fucking man Money.”

“Can I keep being Money in the bank?” Joey asks.

“You…are?” Willy asks as he releases him.

“No I mean like my nickname, not like, my play,” Joey says. “It’s way better than the usual Money.”

“You…are?” Willy repeats. “Wait — what’s the usual Money?”

“Like, my…nickname?” Joey says. He’s confused, and he doesn’t know if it’s better or worse that Willy looks as confused as he does.

“Yeah?” Willy says. “I — know it’s your nickname?”

“Okay?” Joey says.

“I — wait, so you — why do you think you’re called Money?” Willy asks.

“Like, Munroe?” Joey says. “Money?” 

“You think — you think we call you Money because your last name’s Munroe?” Willy asks.

“Yeah?” Joey says.

“Money,” Willy says. “You complete and utter moron.”

“Hey,” Joey says.

“I can’t even deal with you!” Willy says. “Munroe, Money? How fucking lazy do you think we are at picking nicknames?”

“You’re Willy for Williams,” Joey says.

“That particular nickname predated this era of the Scouts,” Willy says, all snotty, like he’s defined a New Scouts Era or something. Though to be fair, the Scouts are a whole other thing than they were when Willy arrived. They were flat out awful for a good decade there, and Willy’s pretty much the only Scout on the current roster who was there during the awful times. Hell, the only reason they got him was because of how awful they were. “We have naming standards now.”

“Naming standards?” Joey says. “We call Brandon Shithead.”

“Is that not accurate?” Willy asks. “Is that not an appropriate name for Shithead?”

Joey must admit it is a very suitable name. Much more accurate than “Simmer,” which he is to the media, and also whenever they talk about him to the media, because Shithead is not a media appropriate nickname. Shithead does not simmer. Simmering implies control and like, depths. Shithead is more of a, well. 

The name is appropriate.

And apparently Joey’s is Money in the bank, and nobody told him. He feels like Archimedes in the bath or something except Archimedes was presumably much smarter than him. Or was it the triangle guy? Pythagoras? College has failed Joey. 

“Who said eureka?” Joey asks.

“Uh,” Willy says. “Is this — relevant?”

“Scratch who said ‘eureka’?” Joey calls across the room.

“Archimedes,” Scratch calls back, then, walking over, “Don’t go running naked through the halls if that’s what that question meant.”

“It was not,” Joey says. “Willy — where’d Willy go?”

“I’ve washed my hands of you, Money!” Willy says from halfway across the room. “Washed my hands!”

“Appreciating Money time didn’t last very long,” Joey says.

“Time to head out?” Scratch asks.

“Time to head out,” Joey agrees.

“Need to get checked out first?” Scratch asks. “Took some whacks there at the end.”

“Nah,” Joey says. “Bumps and bruises, I’m good.”

“Sure?” Scratch asks.

“Not gonna risk being game-ready,” Joey says. “I’m good.”

It’s Joey’s turn to drive, and Scratch drowses a bit on the short ride home. Joey may have been sacrificing his body to save the puck at the end of it, but Scratch was sacrificing his body all night throwing crushing hit after crushing hit, taking a few of his own. Maybe he should have been the one getting checked out.

“You wanna come up?” Joey asks after he parks. “Or you too tired?”

Scratch looks considering.

“I bought mini cupcakes,” Joey says. “The ones you eat in one bite because you’re a disgusting monster.”

“I love those,” Scratch says happily, and literally leads the way to Joey’s place, energized by cupcake anticipation.

“Don’t tell Willy,” Scratch says after the third mini cupcake stuffed in his disgusting monster face. He has icing on his nose. Joey mutely hands him a Kleenex. 

Scratch wipes his mouth.

“Your nose,” Joey says. “You disgusting monster.”

Scratch wipes his nose and then undermines all of Joey’s work by stuffing another cupcake in his mouth. Joey watches, utterly fascinated by him.

“Nose again?” Scratch asks.

“Yup,” Joey says, and as Scratch wipes the icing off, “Did you know my nickname meant Money in the bank?”

Scratch blinks at him. “Uh,” he says. “Yeah?”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Joey asks.

“Tell you what?” Scratch asks.

“That’s what it meant,” Joey asks.

“Did you — did you _not_?” Scratch asks.

“I did not,” Joey confirms.

“How did you not?” Scratch says.

“No one told me?” Joey says.

“But you’re like —” Scratch says. “Do you need me to tell you how good a hockey player you are?”

“Nope,” Joey says. “I am aware that I am an above average hockey player. I even got Smelly Sparkle Hat, though by all rights it should have been Willy’s or Limbo’s.”

“Too bad,” Scratch says. “Fuck off with that ‘above average’ and ‘by all rights’, Money. Coach plays you every single important minute we have. You play the final minute. You play the PK. You block shots. You scored more than twenty fucking goals this season. You’re Limbo’s _and_ Trigger’s favorite non-D man, and I’m not surprised considering you were literally willing to lie down and play dead on a puck when we had a _two_ goal lead so that it wouldn’t _possibly_ become a one goal game that we almost definitely would have won anyway. There is literally not a single team in the league that wouldn’t lose their minds with excitement if they could have you.”

There are too many things being said about him right now to handle. Joey curls away from them, jamming his face in the couch cushion.

“Are you hiding your face in the couch so I stop complimenting your hockey or so that you don’t have to look at me while I continue to compliment your hockey?” Scratch says. “Because I’m totally cool to keep going if it’s the second one.”

“Please stop saying nice things,” Joey says into the fabric. The thing is, Scratch says nice things to him all the time, but they’re usually more spread out, and also interspersed with jokingly mean things. This is hurting his brain. Today has been a very big day in hurting his brain.

“You are so bad at taking compliments,” Scratch says.

“It is not a strength of mine,” Joey admits. Once in awhile is fine, and he loves himself a good celly compliment during games, but this many compliments? In this time frame? It is too much for one Joey Munroe to take.

“Good thing you’re a baller hockey player,” Scratch says.

“No more!” Joey says, then, “Ow!”, when Scratch pokes him in the side, not from pain but from startlement. Is startlement a word? Joey doesn’t think so, but it should be.

“I’ll quit saying nice things if you show me your stupid face,” Scratch says.

Joey turns his stupid face Scratch’s way, but slowly, with great suspicion, in case Scratch is lying to him. 

“Such a dumb face,” Scratch coos.

“That’s better,” Joey says. “Thank you.”

“You’re the weirdest dude,” Scratch says, still kind of cooing, like he’s telling Joey he’s a good dog. Or the weirdest dude.

“You’re the weird dude,” Joey says, enduring another poke in response, one he can see coming at least.

“Can’t believe you just hid like a kid watching a scary movie,” Scratch says, then pauses. “Or like a Joey watching a scary movie.”

“I do not enjoy the experience of feeling fear, and I do not think that is unreasonable,” Joey says.

“Wimp,” Scratch says.

“Can’t hurt my feelings, my goalie called me a warrior tonight,” Joey says.

“How is it that you can’t watch a horror movie but are willing to lie helplessly on a piece of vulcanized rubber with a bunch of sharp blades near your face?” Scratch says. 

“Do the horror movies pay me to watch them?” Joey asks. “Is it my job to watch horror movies?”

“Is it a forward’s job to try to eat a puck?” Scratch asks.

Joey shrugs. “If I can help my goalie I’m gonna help my goalie.”

“And that’s why you’re Money in—” Scratch says. “Don’t hide again!”

“Can’t hear you when I can’t see you,” Joey says, and then, “Ow!” when Scratch pokes him, which probably shouldn’t have startled him again, but did, because he never learns. Scratch keeps poking him.

“If you don’t quite hiding I will eat every single one of these cupcakes,” Scratch says. 

Joey considers.

“Every single one,” Scratch says.

“You’ll make yourself sick,” Joey says.

“But first I’ll feel awesome,” Scratch says, and Joey reluctantly turns to look at him. 

“How do you have icing on your face again?” Joey asks. “Did you eat a cupcake when I wasn’t looking?” 

Scratch looks proudly unrepentant, so Joey thinks yes.

Joey hands him another tissue. Usually he’d just wipe it off with his thumb, maybe follow it up with a flick, but that feels like something — loaded, right now, in a way it wasn’t before.

“I get it?” Scratch asks. There’s a tiny bit in the corner of his mouth, but his tongue flicks out before Joey can say anything, and it’s gone. “Money?”

“Yeah,” Joey says. “You got it.”


End file.
